


The Memory of Falling Stars

by EdnaV



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Canon Compliant, Crowley Has PTSD (Good Omens), Domestic Bliss, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, I wrote this fic because I'm a drama queen, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Les Misérables References, M/M, no need to know the musical
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:02:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23444410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EdnaV/pseuds/EdnaV
Summary: Crowley’s left hand is clutching the armrest in the dark. The right one’s in his lap; he’s trying to keep it as hidden as possible from Aziraphale while tightening it in a fist that’s becoming more and more painful.I should’ve cut my nails,he thinks, and for a moment is grateful for the distraction; but he can’t help focusing on the stage, like everybody else in the theatre.---The lyrics of a musical awaken some painful memories in Crowley. But Aziraphale is the best husband a demon could ever wish for...
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 110





	The Memory of Falling Stars

**Author's Note:**

> Do you know when you have a song stuck in your head and you have to write a fic? This is what happened. The song is [Stars, from Les Misérables](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=urxk4mveLCw). The lyrics that prompted the fic are:  
>  _Those who follow the path of the righteous  
>  Shall have their reward  
> And if they fall  
> As Lucifer fell  
> The flames  
> The sword!_
> 
> The T-rating is for some violence, including implicit self-harm ideation.
> 
> An immense thank you to my last-minute beta [D20Owlbear](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeforeCrimson/pseuds/D20Owlbear).

Crowley’s left hand is clutching the armrest in the dark. The right one’s in his lap; he’s trying to keep it as hidden as possible from Aziraphale while tightening it in a fist that’s becoming more and more painful. _I should’ve cut my nails,_ he thinks, and for a moment is grateful for the distraction; but he can’t help focusing on the stage, like everybody else in the theatre.

Aziraphale seems completely enthralled by the singer. _Hopefully he’s not paying too much attention to the words,_ thinks Crowley. There’s a good chance he isn’t: the man’s voice is beautiful, the number requires nothing less than a great singer. There’s enough to completely captivate someone’s attention, even if that someone is an angel of the Lord who’s witnessed six thousand years of this world and the blessed time that was before time.

Crowley’s the only one in here who knows what those words actually mean. He’s the only one who remembers what it was like to be on the wrong side when Lucifer fell. _Or at least on the side that ended up with their wings scorched by sulfur and flaming swords. Still not sure that it was the wrong one. Definitely sure that there wasn’t a right one._

He closes his eyes. The memories become even more vivid: he feels the shock of the air on his skin while it becomes warmer, then hot, then blistering. His wings itch as if asking to be let out, now, to be checked, one feather at a time; the bones might be splintered...

There are many things you can do in the stalls of a West End theatre. In his career as a tempter, Crowley’s done most of them, and then a few more; but even he wouldn’t reveal a wingspan of four metres halfway through _Les Misérables._ It would lead to all sorts of inconvenient emergency miracles, and it would ruin Aziraphale’s evening. Better not.

He breathes: in, out. _Your wings are okay. You’ve checked them this afternoon. You can do it again once you get home._

In, out. He manages to open his eyes. His fist tightens, but by this point he’s not feeling his hand anymore.

 _The light technicians are doing a great job,_ he thinks.

_What a stupid thing to notice._

_No, not stupid. They’re brilliant, as brilliant as only humans can be. So brilliant that a creature who’s built galaxies can barely stand the emotions they use as entertainment._

As the singer is mentioning the Fall and the flames again, the orchestra underlines the tension with a crescendo. Crowley has to remind himself that they’re not mocking him. It’s just the libretto.

In, out. _Maybe try not to break the armrest._

_It’s not their fault. Brilliant human beings. They don’t know._

In, out.

He steals a glance to his right. Maybe he could try to take the proverbial bull by the French horns. He already savours the best food by proxy, just by looking at his angel. Why should theatre be any different? And anyway, even the thought of a curl on Aziraphale’s head can distract him for a day. It’s actually kept him from doing something really stupid for a whole month once: 4th March to 3rd April 1963, back in the days when they couldn’t even dream of being together in the open.

He turns his head a few degrees.

And Aziraphale’s looking at him. The angel’s totally, utterly, completely focused on him; as if there were nothing in the world but Crowley, not even Aziraphale himself. 

They don’t need to say a word, they know each other so deeply that they can have a conversation just by being close to each other, even in the dark, even as the last notes die out and the Sondheim Theatre is roaring with applause after Javert’s show-stopper. 

Aziraphale’s half-repressed sigh: _I can’t take away your suffering, I can’t even imagine it, let alone talk about it: that’s up to you._ His unflinching stare: _I’m sorry, I should’ve told you, you’ve got every right to make a scene and I won’t complain if you do._ The hands that he keeps on wringing: _I still hope that it will happen later at home and not here and now, my love, but of course the decision rests with you._

Crowley’s frown: _how much have you seen? How much do you know?_ His breathing that becomes softer, his hands relaxing: _sometimes I forget how good you are at watching over me._ His nod: _no need to apologise, angel, I was the one who insisted._ His half-smile: _don’t worry, I can make it. Just enjoy the show._

Aziraphale nods in return. _I’m here. Anything you want. Just tell me._

Crowley blinks. It’s behind his sunglasses, the theatre’s dark and the lights on stage are dimming, but Aziraphale knows the movement of every eyelash. 

He tilts his head. _You’d better watch the stage, angel._

Aziraphale turns, his eyes brightening as the music takes him once more to Paris, 1832. 

Crowley remembers how many times the angel’s pointed out that he favours that mess of Éponine over the goody-good Cosette. _I wonder if he was trying to tell me something about the two of us,_ he muses. _Who knows. It was a close call, it took a bloody Apocalypse. Well, a not-bloody not-Apocalypse. But we’re here, now. And later we’ll go back home,_ our _home, and we’ll talk about the show over a drink. And maybe tonight we’re going to sleep together. Or I’m going to sleep, and he’s going to sit next to me and read. Anyway, he’s going to be the first thing I see when I wake up._

As Grantaire acts like a fool in front of Enjolras, Crowley feels Aziraphale’s curls tickling his chin, the weight of his husband’s head on his shoulder.

_It was the worst fall. I remember every inch of it. And yet, after all the despair and the pain, I still landed in the best place._

**Author's Note:**

> Don't be shy, make me smile, leave a comment! 
> 
> (Even if you didn't like the fic: constructive criticism is more than welcome!)


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